M Ward: All Mouth.

I came home after a day of relentless toiling at the "gaol" (old English spelling of "prison," pronounced the same way) on Tuesday and could not not rouse myself from the living room floor to go to the trouble of cooking anything.

The job and the recently-instituted jogging regime, seemed to have used up everything in the Buckley-tank and I was feeling put-upon to be going out for the evening but the parts of me which held the remnants of the man that was once yours truly, were very much looking forward to seeing and hearing the man who was gracefully adding weight to my eyelids as I lay on the floor listening to his CD, all-the-while fearing that his subtle brand of music-making would if anything encourage my system to wind down for the night if I finally did manage to get in gear and make it to the gig.

M Ward is to me, a musician of the most touching and brilliant talent, and so when I went to feast on his genius and beauty (as my dinner was only an unsatisfying bowl of soup in the end), I expected not to be joined by the small crowd of about 80 people (by my count) as I was, but by a vast numbers of devoted fans in a massive venue that was sold out in minutes and left sad hopefuls outside its doors. I couldn't get over the fact that I was standing so close to this guy and I took a special pleasure in convincing myself that when a spotlight shone in my face on one of the few occasions that he looked directly out to the crowd, that he had seen my adoring mug. Yes, M Ward had seen, not remembered or noted nor was he even conscious of this glance, but had indeed laid eyes on my face: a connection, I remember thinking at the time, I would most likely take an unspoken pleasure in while listening to his music in the future. It was weird for me to think that (and weirder still to say it) because I never thought that I indulged myself in the cult of celebrity in my life generally, and would be a little embarrassed about it philosophically I suppose.

M Ward is one of those performers who is all music and no frills. It was difficult to see his face under his baseball cap apart from occasional moments where he tilted his head right back to check on the audience, so the focus at all times during the concert was his prominent, expressive and seemingly disembodied mouth. As the lights on the stage left little else visible, all eyes were on this source of the voice. A voice that seems to vibrate at the same frequency as the human heart, if you'll forgive a gushing metaphor, from a confirmed fan.

After the gig (which I was everything I could have hoped for), I was saying a few hellos and goodbyes and happened to notice that the guy sheepishly standing behind me on his own at the bar was only bloody M Ward himself! God, what a joy it was to be able to go up, say hi and shake the hand of this legend (a happy gesture which was to be repeated some 2 more times (the shaking of hands that is): a detail only a pathetic and incurable fan would include in such a story). We chatted for a bit about Portland Oregon, and just generally shot the breeze as they say. He signed an album for me and I left that bar one very campy happer... though a little dazed after this encounter and not knowing quite what I wanted to do with myself.

I did what any sensible Irishman would do. I went for a pint. "One pint" I thought: one quiet pint before bed would round off the evening just nicely. I went to a little place in templebar where they play live music, bumped into a guy I knew from a party a while back, became infected by his contagious enthusiasm and before I knew it, it was five in the morning, I had drunk my own body-weight in alcohol and was obliviously crashing around my flat, slamming doors, banging pots and singing "build me up buttercup" as my flatmate silently cursed me from the discomfort his bed and the rude awakening he had received as a result of my excessive, spontaneous and thoroughly satisfying night of partying.

Meeting two highly entertaining Americans who had been on my tour of Kilmainham Gaol, (& I spotted them, not vice-versa, interestingly) was a highlight of the evening and they were generous and foolish enough to join me in attending an under-populated party in Rathmines (on foot, bless us) where wine was drunk and efforts were made to understand how piles of loose hair in a room dedicated solely to their collection were going to constitute 'art.' Needless to say, we were more successful in achieving the former; philistines that we are.

I also owe them thanks for the fun I had on Friday night when they hired me as an escort through the (subjectively speaking) best restaurants, pubs and clubs of Dublin city on a salary of food and booze: a most most welcomed and enjoyable form of remuneration; unnecessary though it was, as the evening was entirely my pleasure. So thanks a lot and safe home folks.